


to catch a golden snitch

by tawktomahawk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Aurors, F/M, Not a Crossover, Snippets, Students at Hogwarts, Taking requests!, wizarding war au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23550571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawktomahawk/pseuds/tawktomahawk
Summary: A collection of snippets of Jaime and Brienne as students at Hogwarts, aurors at the Ministry of Magic, etc.No rhyme or reason, just a good time!
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 51
Kudos: 67





	1. Quidditch Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> self-isolation has me shamelessly bringing together my two longtime loves - Harry Potter and JB. I’m gonna sink into this series like a hot bath and enjoy every second of writing.

The Quidditch pitch loomed ahead of him. 

He felt Addam at his back, struggling to adjust his gold and red striped scarf. Jaime wore his own wrapped high around his neck to block the biting wind. The September breeze was oddly crisp, and the air was still damp from the previous night’s storm. 

Their loafers padded over the dewy grass as the hoard of first year Gryffindors moved towards the pitch. They pointed and gasped when the three silver hoops rose into sight, their wrought metal glinting in the morning sun. A few quidditch players flew up near the hoops, tossing quaffles back and forth. Addam breathed out in awe, and Jaime resisted the urge to whoop excitedly. 

Madame Stark corralled the first years towards the edge of the field and advised them to line up beside two rows of old, worn broomsticks. 

“Command them!” 

Jaime held out his palm and felt the familiar thrum of magic beneath his skin, pulsing in his fingertips. The broomstick flew up to meet him, the rough wood soothing beneath his palm, and Jaime shifted on his feet as he waited for Madame Stark’s next directive. He itched to shoot into the sky. 

“Now,” shouted Stark, “swing your leg over the broomstick!” Her commandeering voice interrupted his thoughts, and Jaime tore his eyes away from the flier who had just shoved the quaffle through the hoop three times in a row. He deftly lifted his leg and settled himself on his broom, noting its slight jerk at his weight. He’d left his Nimbus 2000 at home, and in that moment, he missed it desperately. Stark’s voice prattled on in the background, and Jaime shifted his weight experimentally. The broom would suffice. If he were to train hard enough for a slot on the Gryffindor quidditch team his second year, he’d need to get used to it. 

“We’ll be joined today by a few assistants,” Stark said. “Quidditch players from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff will demonstrate for us some essential flying techniques.” 

Jaime and Addam glanced at each other excitedly. Behind him, high in the sky, the fliers buzzing around the hoops flew down, winding their way towards Jaime and the group. 

He straightened his back and attempted to appear confident and at-ease. He lifted his chin a smidgeon and tossed his hair away from his face. 

The fliers landed near Madame Stark. Jaime recognized the Gryffindors from the welcome speech and the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Sandor Clegane, a fourth year, glowered at them, gripping a quaffle in his left hand. Jaime recognized Selmy, too, a seventh year Gryffindor Beater. It was said that Selmy had been recruited to play professionally over the summer. Jaime had tried to sit near him during breakfast to catch snippets about Selmy’s future with the Kingsguard White Cloaks. He’d eaten four sausages without realizing while absorbed in Selmy’s conversation. 

He didn’t recognize the Hufflepuffs, though he hadn’t paid the badger’s table much attention. Slowly, assessing his future competition, Jaime flicked his eyes over the boy and the girl—no, the two girls—representing Hufflepuff. 

“Introduce yourselves, then,” Stark told the players. “And state your position.” 

“Barristan Selmy, Beater for Gryffindor.” A cheer went up, and Jaime joined them. “Seventh year.” 

“Sandor, Keeper for Gryffindor.” A smaller cheer went up, but it faltered at Sandor’s sneer. 

“Meera Reed, Chaser for Hufflepuff. Fourth year.” The willowy girl smiled kindly at them all, and most smiled back. Jaime did not. He had fastened his eyes on the hulking girl at the edge of the group. She shrunk further into herself as her turn to introduce herself approached, but it only served to emphasize her stature. She was remarkably tall for a twelve year old. Her face was a strange array of large, crooked features, with straw-like hair that whipped about in the cool wind. Jaime saw her clench her hand around her broomstick. 

“Brienne Tarth,” she said, her voice surprisingly loud and clear. “First year Hufflepuff.” Jaime narrowed his eyes—first year? Her gaze caught on his. “Seeker.” 

Jaime’s stomach dropped. 

Hufflepuff’s Quidditch team was rumoured to be exceptionally good. And Jaime has been training to become a Seeker for Gryffindor since the day he learned to fly. How had this first year bypassed the rules? Already a Seeker? 

She was still staring at him. Jaime shook his head again to get a pesky curl away from his face, and she startled and looked away. 

“In pairs,” Stark was saying, and Jaime and Addam clumped together. He tore his gaze from the Tarth girl to stare hopefully at Selmy. Selmy ignored them, drawn towards a pair of struggling muggleborns, and Jaime sagged in disappointment only to straighten again as Sandor approached them with disdain in his eyes. 

“Wow, you’re a Seeker already?” Jaime heard a girl say behind him. He stiffened and glanced over his shoulder. His broom jerked beneath him and he stumbled a bit to the side. Brienne’s eyes were pulled towards him. 

“Nothing to see here, Tarth,” he quipped. “I’m used to better brooms.” 

She flicked her eyes over his frame, from dampened loafer to the scarf wound tightly about his neck, and dismissed him quickly. Jaime bristled. 

She’d see. Soon enough, Tarth would see.


	2. The Astronomy Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> backstory: 5th year at Hogwarts and a kiss!

The view from the Astronomy Tower is exceptional at night. 

Jaime has taken to pulling Brienne up the winding, moving steps, pulling her cloak taut around her, and wrapping his own scarf around her neck. She feels silly, gallivanting around at night with a boy this beautiful, and wearing a Gryffindor scarf, no less. 

But there’s a lightness in the air, now that their fifth year has passed. Their OWLs are over, and there are no balls to worry about this winter. She can enjoy November’s short daylight hours and waste the occasional evening. She can shove her nose in Jaime’s scarf, breathe deeply, and blame it on the cold. 

“There.” She points up towards the sky. “That one. The Evenstar. They don’t call it that anymore, but they used to. Old Potions and Herbology textbooks still reference it. ‘Harvest your Shrivelfig beneath the Evenstar.’ Things like that.”

She can feel Jaime nod beside her. She steals a glance at him, assuming he’s looking up at the sky, but he isn’t. He catches her eye, and she immediately turns away, burrowing her chin in his scarf again. He leans against the railing, inadvertently coming closer to her. The motion moves the air, and she stands caught in the cloud of him. 

“I think I hate Potions,” he says. 

She wants to laugh, but her voice is caught somewhere. “I know,” she manages. “You’ve always been better at Charms. And Defense, obviously.” 

“I suppose you’re right. You’re quite good at Charms, too.” He leans closer. 

Brienne sees his hand move and her eyes widen as he reaches beneath her cloak. He pulls her wand from the holster secured at her hip, and she holds her breath at the small vibration of the wood against the leather. Jaime withdraws his hand from her cloak, the pale wood of her wand gleaming under the moonlight against his golden palm. It’s strange to see it there, away from her person but still an extension of it, cradled there in Jaime’s hand. 

“Aspen,” he murmurs. He glances up at her for confirmation, and she gives him a small nod. 

“For duelists,” he continues, smirking. “And the strong-minded. Good for quests.”

Jaime holds the pale wand up near her cheek. She can feel her magic sing beneath her skin at the proximity of her wand, or perhaps it’s at Jaime’s closeness. She isn’t sure. “It even matches you on the outside, Tarth. Rather pale.” 

She reaches up to pull her wand away. “Oh, shut up.” 

He laughs at her. For some reason, Brienne doesn’t mind so much when he does it anymore. She used to bristle. Now she softens at the sound and only grumbles for show. _It’s his eyes_ , she thinks. _They soften when he laughs now._

Brienne brushes the ridiculous thought away. She needs to do something with her hands. His wand is there, just inside his cloak, and she reaches out to grab it. He shifts his weight when her hand brushes his hip, and she quickly pulls the wand from its holster. 

Triumphantly, she displays it to him. “Your turn.” 

He watches her for a moment, then clears his throat. “Blackthorn,” he tells her. “A strange wood. Best for a warrior. Our bond grows stronger through adversity.” His face clouds. “Used by Dark wizards and great wizards alike.”

Brienne bites her lip, unsure how to soothe him. “The wood isn’t everything. Length and core are important, too.” 

Jaime shrugs, playing at nonchalance and donning a cocky grin. “Eleven inches. Apparently I’m an arrogant show-off.” 

“You are a bit showy.” 

He laughs. “A bit. Anyways, it doesn’t matter. What matters is what’s in here.” He reaches out a perfectly manicured finger and taps her chest. “What’s yours, Tarth? Your wand core?” 

Brienne can still feel the heat of his finger tip. It drills into very center of her. A cloud passes over the moon above them, and although Jaime’s face is cast in shadow, she feels as if his eyes are greener than ever. “Unicorn,” she whispers.

He whispers, too. “Good to the very heart of you, Brienne.” 

She flushes. “And yours?”

He doesn’t answer. It seems as though he’s swaying towards her. Brienne reaches her hand out to his forearm to steady him, gripping his wand in her other hand. Jaime watches her fingers. 

“Jaime?” 

His hand closes around hers on his wand, and the heat from him is enough to set Brienne on fire. “Phoenix,” he says gruffly, and then his lips are on hers. Softer than she’d expected from him, in the brief moments when she’d let herself imagine it. It’s short and sweet. It’s her first. 

She pulls away, and slides her hand from beneath his, covering her lips with her fingertips. 

Jaime smiles. It, too, is soft, and Brienne doesn’t know what to do with it. Where to store this memory without it seeping into every part of her like water on parchment. She takes a step back, towards the stairs, and Jaime tucks his wand back in its holster and walks to the first step. 

“Well?” he says confidently, calling to her, reaching out his hand for her to take. 

Brienne shoves her nose back in his scarf and breathes deeply. _Gryffindors_ , she thinks, exasperated.

She takes his hand.


	3. Wizarding War AU (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet is unrelated to the two previous chapters! Jaime is older than Brienne here, and they don't know each other yet. 
> 
> Backstory: This takes place in an AU in which the Light loses the Battle of Hogwarts, and they have to keep fighting. Heavily inspired by a Dramione fic (The Fallout by everythursday). There will be two parts to this! 
> 
> Very mild warning for gore and battles (re: Jaime's hand).

“Why is he here?” Brienne spits.

The golden Gryffindor deserter sits on a couch in the corner of their dilapidated safe house. _Jaime Lannister._ He’s stiff, elbows digging into his knees, and Brienne wants to hurl something at him. A lamp, the bag of food in her hand, the nearest couch pillow. He watches her closely, tracks the fury as it consumes her.

“Tarth.” He tips his head at her, just enough to mock her with the simple movement.

She hates him. This man she barely knows, barely even remembers. The tangle of blonde curls at his neck, his piercing green eyes through the dusk’s dark, the sharp edge in his voice. She’s always hated him.

He sold Hogwarts out to the corrupted Ministry. His entire family reeks of greed and calculated cruelty. And Brienne can ignore it, usually, but not here.

Please, Gods, not here in this safe house. Pod is here. Sansa is here. Renly is here.

She feels sick with anger and leftover nerves from the battle. A small pod of wights, moving south from Craster’s Keep. She’d held out okay, but apparating back to Evenfall Place had drained her. Her biting words turn to dust on her tongue. She gives Lannister one final, scathing look and storms from the room, dropping the food at the door.

Sinking into her own firm mattress, she shoves her face in her pillow.

_We need fighters. We need him._

But Jaime Lannister is the last person she would have asked for. The notorious traitor, one thin wall away.

* * *

He’s gone by morning. Brienne dresses before leaving her room, tucking her wand in her back pocket just in case she has to endure him, but the couch is empty. Only a folded blanket at the edge of a cushion suggests he was ever there.

She trundles into the kitchen, flicking her wand at the pantry and heating a kettle for tea. She wipes the morning grit from her eyes and goes to retrieve the cream, belatedly noting Catelyn sitting on the window sill.

Brienne straightens. “Good morning, Catelyn,” she says stiffly. Inescapably gruff, even when she’d rather attempt something more soft.

“Good morning, Brienne,” Catelyn sighs.

Brienne peers at her, the lines around her mouth and the shadows beneath her eyes. Catelyn is the angry one of the pack. She rallies them together, binds them about her fury. Today, she just seems deflated. Brienne fiddles with the jug of cream in her hands.

“Are you alright, Catelyn?”

She blinks, turning away from the window. “Oh, Brienne. I keep telling you to call me Cat.” Brienne’s formality has always seemed to bother her. The pot whistles, and Brienne turns to prepare her breakfast.

“Is everything okay, Cat?” she tries again, her face safely turned away. She hears Catelyn rise to her feet.

“As fine as things can be, I suppose.”

Brienne nods. Catelyn approaches, and the weight of her hand settles on Brienne’s shoulders. The warmth of it calms her like a sip of tea, and she gulps her hot drink to replicate the gentle feeling.

“Brienne,” Catelyn says tentatively.

Brienne knows already. Somehow, she knows. She can hear the request as if Catelyn had already said it.

“I know your feelings about Lannister. Frankly, we all feel similarly. But he’s here. He’s sworn to help us. We need his help desperately.”

Brienne gives a single, stiff nod. “I know.”

Catelyn squeezes her shoulder and releases her.

“Keep an eye on him, Brienne. Keep him in line...but keep him safe, too.”

It’s heavy. So, so heavy. The weight of this obligation amongst all the others. Brienne can hardly bear it, and she knows she’s stronger than most.

“I will.”

Catelyn mutters a thank you and breezes from the room. Brienne takes her seat at the windowsill, and stares and stares and stares.

* * *

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jaime yells, his hands fisted in her cloak.

Blasts pop in the distance, shaking the ground beneath their feet. The forest is dark and smoky, dense with the stench of Dark magic, and Lannister has her pinned against a tree. Renly and the others are somewhere behind them.

“Let me go,” Brienne snarls. Jaime releases her, but his face is a hand’s width from her own—too close.

“You’ll compromise us, Tarth. You’re too big. You’re loud on your feet. And you can’t cast a nonverbal spell to save your wretched _life._ Those aren't wights. That's a _Walker.”_

“I will not leave my team!”

“You’ll kill us all.”

_“You_ leave. We all know you will eventually anyways. We didn’t want you here. You’re a traitor, you betrayed Headmaster—“

A jet of purple light buzzes by their heads, and Jaime shoves her away. “Apparate out. Get backup. I swear to every one of the seven Gods, Tarth, if you don’t do as I fucking say—“

She apparates with a furious scowl.

* * *

He’s asleep on the couch the next time she sees him. The ratty blanket is twisted around his legs, and his hands are cradled beneath his chin.

He looks young. He looks like the handsome seventh year boy Brienne remembers. She’d been a nervous Hufflepuff first year and there he’d sat, golden and lion-like, lounging at the center of the Gryffindor table, laughing with Dayne and Marbrand and Robb.

_Robb._ The name twists in her gut, a sharp-edged memory, and she looks away from Jaime. She steps towards her room, and the floorboard creaks.

Brienne winces. She peeks at Jaime. His eyes are open, watching her.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Go back to bed.”

He watches her for a moment, and then swings his legs off of the couch, bundling the blanket and setting it at the edge of the cushion.

He stands, aggressively beautiful even while rumpled and groggy. It’s his movements that make him so threatening, she realizes. Every step is calculated. Every flick of his eyes is like a lash. She nearly bleeds at the sight of him.

“Nice to see you, too, Tarth,” he murmurs, moving towards the kitchen. His silken voice slithers over her and tightens her throat.

She clenches her fists, and he smirks at her.

He’s out of the room by the time she thinks of a response.

* * *

Brienne’s hands are shoved in her hair, clutching at the strands, and Renly is pulling back her blankets to throw Jaime’s limp form on her bed. His face is ashen, and sweat pools under his arms, at his chest, and on his back. He looks, for once, less than beautiful, and the thought is so ridiculous in such a horrifying moment that Brienne nearly releases a manic laugh.

Jaime’s fingers are gone. An insidious, dark green color is leaching its way up the back of his hand. One of the wights had bitten him, their teeth imbued with some sort of poison. People didn’t usually survive such up-close fights with wights. Jaime had gotten away, but his fingers....Gods, his fingers. His _hand._

_"Fuck,”_ Renly swears. “Fuck. Get a Healer, Brienne. Get one now.”

“I did—I did,” she stutters, her breath coming in short bursts. “Sam is coming. He’s apparating from Winterfell. He’ll be here any moment—“

A pop sounds from outside on the sea cliff, outside Evenfall’s apparition wards, and Brienne stumbles out of her bedroom to retrieve Sam.

Sam pales at the sight of her face. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Bitten. His fingers are gone.” Brienne pulls Sam inside the safe house. “What do we do? Gods, Sam, what do we do?”

Sam shakes himself and stares at Jaime’s hand. The green has nearly reached his wrist, bubbling beneath the skin.

“I’ll have to take the hand off. We can try—afterwards, we can try to regrow it with Skele-gro, but...”

Brienne nods. “Okay. Do it. Do it, Sam, it’s almost at his wrist.” Jaime twitches in unconsciousness, and Brienne rests her hand on his sweat-damp shoulder. She hates to see anyone suffering. She’s seen so many people in pain. She aches for a smile. For laughter.

Sam pulls a leather bundle from beneath his cloak and rolls it open on the bed, revealing a neatly organized collection of vials. He plucks two from the pouch and draws his wand.

Sam stupefies Jaime, and then drags his wand along the width of Jaime’s wrist, above the bubbling green. Brienne holds her breath.

_"Diffindo.”_

Jaime’s infected hand is severed from his body.

Sam immediately procures the first vial, a blood staunching potion, and he drips three drops of it at the center of the wound. Then, he opens Jaime’s mouth with the lad of his thumb. He dribbles some potion in his mouth—Brienne isn’t sure what, but the gaping wound at the edge of Jaime’s arm starts to seal. Thin layers of skin pull across his wrist, one after the other, until a fresh graft of pale, golden skin rests where Jaime’s hand once did.

Sam points to the hand.

“Dispose of that, Brienne. Best not to touch it. A _bombarda_ should do. Or perhaps a dissolving spell.”

Brienne feels Renly shift at her back. He whispers a levitation charm, and she tries not to grimace at the sight of the dark green fingerless hand floating through her bedroom. She realizes she’s still clutching Jaime’s shoulder.

“I’ll poke around for some Skele-gro,” Sam tells her. “Supplies are low. If I can’t find any within the next couple of days...”

Brienne nods once, releases Jaime’s shoulder, and walks to Renly.

“He’s alive. That’s what matters. Thank you, Sam.” Some dreadful lump sticks in her throat. “Thank you.”

She and Renly dissolve the hand at the edge of the sea cliff, watching it sizzle against the stone.

Brienne sits in the grass and tucks her head between her legs.

“He’ll be fine, Brienne,” Renly says. “It’s just Lannister. What if it had been someone else?”

But Brienne can’t stop seeing Jaime, pale and ashen in her bed, losing more of his flesh with every second. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but the fact that it had been Jaime—that he’d been bitten pushing her away from the hoard of wights...

“Go inside, Renly,” she snaps.

He leaves her there on the sea cliff. Brienne lets herself cry.

* * *

Jaime is asleep for three days. Sam never returned with Skele-gro, but Brienne has a deep, knowing feeling in her gut that it wouldn’t have worked anyways. She sleeps on the chair beside Jaime’s bed, waiting for—dreading—the moment when he wakes up.

When he does, it’s in the bright, aggressively joyful light of the sunset over the sea.

His eyes peel open and find her immediately. His gaze is foggy, not quite there.

Brienne sits forward, shoving her hair out of her face. “Jaime.”

His eyebrows furrow, and he tilts his head. “Jaime,” he murmurs quietly. “You never call me Jaime.” His face looks almost soft, and Brienne hates to shatter the moment with the truth.

His eyes slide over her face, seeking out the source of her odd expression, and Brienne can’t help it. She lets her eyes fall to his wrist, and she watches him stiffen as he follows her gaze.

“Tarth,” he says, voice low and controlled. “Where the fuck is my hand?”

Brienne nearly reaches out to touch him, but she catches herself. “You were bitten. I—“

“I know I was bitten. I remember. I didn’t ask what happened. I asked you: where. The fuck. Is my hand?”

“We had to remove it.” She hates how small her voice sounds. It’s gentle and sweet, and all she wants now is her gruff voice. To tell him how it is. No pity, no placating. They’d had to remove it, and that was that.

His left hand clenches in a fist.

“I’d like to be alone.”

Brienne nods. And keeps nodding. “Okay. Okay. There’s a pain relief potion on the side of your bed. And a Pepper-Up potion, too, just in case you want to get up and walk around. And don’t touch the skin. Sam said it would be delicate for a couple weeks—“

“Tarth.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’m—I’ll be just outside.”

She shuts the door behind her, and takes a large, fortifying breath.

Jaime was okay. He was alive. That was what mattered. She only wishes she’d done better to protect him in the first place.

* * *

She flutters around him, bringing him food and fresh potions and glasses of water, and all the while, he simmers.

“Stop it, Tarth,” he spits one day after she brings him soup.

Brienne stares at him.

“I don’t want your pity,” he explains.

“I don’t pity you.”

“Well, you don’t have to take care of me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re not eating.”

“Just because I don’t eat all of the five meals you bring me every day—“

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“Stop, Tarth.”

“I want to help you.”

He sneers, and it stings. “I don’t want help. Not from anyone, but especially not from you.”

Brienne jerks away from him. “I’m trying to do the right thing,” she says, voice thick and guilty.

“How honorable of you.”

She straightens, glaring down at him. He’s still lying in her bed.

“Always doing what other people ask of you,” he continues, venom dripping from his voice. “Catelyn, Renly. Even Sansa, sometimes. They tell you what to do and you do it. No questions asked. Even when they tell you to babysit the deserter.”

She feels as if he punched the air from her chest. “I like to take care of people,” she defends weakly.

He glares. “And who takes care of you, Tarth?”

She stumbles back a step. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

Her voice is so small. Why do the weakest parts of her drift to the surface in Jaime’s presence? All of it is buoyed under his stare, floating for him to see.

“I don’t believe you.”

They stare at each other. Finally, Brienne turns to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob.

“Catelyn asked me to keep you safe. That’s it.”

He doesn’t answer, and she leaves.

* * *

Jaime practices his wand-work with his left hand. He can’t manage the more delicate motions, but delicacy is unnecessary for a battle. He can manage a bombarda and a sectumsempra, and armed with a few other brutal curses, he follows Brienne into the next battle.

She sticks close to him, still nervous about his hand, and he glowers when he notices. He lets her close anyways, and they fall into a rhythm together, staying at each other’s backs, picking off the massive herd of wights one-by-one.

They apparate back to Evenfall afterwards, and Brienne tries not to stare when Jaime strips off his viscera-speckled cloak and the shirt beneath. His golden skin ripples in the dimly lit entry way, and he tilts his chin at her.

“I’m going to shower.”

He finds her in the kitchen later. His hair is wet and curling at his forehead. Stubble roughens his jawline. Brienne hates the way her stomach jumps at the sight of him.

“I’m not going to leave, Tarth.”

She glances at him, confused. “I know.”

“You don’t have to monitor me during the battle. I wouldn’t just leave you there. You can trust me.”

Brienne is thoroughly confused. “I know that now. I wasn’t monitoring you. I just.” She looks at the floor. “Your hand. I wanted to make sure you were...” She trails off, aware the topic makes him angry. He says nothing, and she looks up at his silence.

“Oh,” he says, rubbing his jaw with his left hand.

“I trust you,” she tells him. He stills, his eyes caught on her. She shifts, uncomfortable with the weight of his stare, and moves to leave.

“Headmaster Targaryen—“ he blurts.

Brienne freezes.

“He hated the Ministry,” Jaime tells her, words coming out in a flood. His voice is hushed and guilty and rough. “There’s not much about the Ministry to love, I suppose, especially not now, but back then....they were trying to root out certain professors.”

Brienne knows this. The Ministry is always rearranging the world to its own delight. The Lannisters were the most successful players to walk through its atrium.

“But Targaryen...he needed to go. He was about to be sacked, and I was glad.” Jaime looks up at her imploringly. “I was Gryffindor Head Boy. He took me under his wing. Me, the pureblood Lannister duelist. He showed me his office. Told me his plans. I saw the way he dabbled in Dark magic.”

Brienne breathes in sharply. “Dark magic?”

“Yes. He wanted to be the best. He was Headmaster—in touch with all of the brightest witches and wizards in existence, and able to oversee the education of all who showed potential. And if Craster’s Treaty was violated...he’d have control of the best wizarding fortress in the world. Hogwarts. He could house the brightest, most promising pureblood witches and wizards. And he could dispose of all the rest.”

Brienne sits on the windowsill. Her legs won’t support her through this confession.

“I know what they call me. The Gryffindor deserter. The boy who betrayed Hogwarts to the Ministry. And I did. I deactivated Targaryen’s wards. I let the Ministry in.” Jaime walks towards her, placing his hand on the window frame near her head. “But I had to. I had no choice.”

Brienne swallows. “Why haven’t you told someone? Anyone?”

“Would it matter? The Ministry sunk its claws into Hogwarts anyways. I left, and the other Aurors—“ His mouth twists. “The most self-righteous lot in the whole Ministry—none of them ever even asked why I’d done it.”

It's a horrifying truth, but Brienne knows he's telling it true. She knows better now, in the height of this wretched war, than to cling to goodness when evil shows itself so plainly. She stands abruptly, unable to bear it. 

On her feet, she finds herself very close to Jaime. His face is still flushed from his shower. She feels a wash of his breath on her face, and she pulls away. It’s all too overwhelming. 

“I believe you,” she says on her way out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lannister.”

“Jaime,” he says, and she halts at the door. “My name is Jaime.”

She glances back at him, there against the window. He looks like a god; one she could viably worship now that he’s revealed his goodness to her.

“Jaime,” she whispers.

It sounds like a prayer.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave any requests/ideas in the comments if you have any! & I hope you’re all doing well. I’m on tumblr (tawktomahawk) if anyone wants to come scream at the state of the world with me.


End file.
